The meadows through which my dancing heart <br />Has often ambled with abondoned glee <br />Are now overgrown by thorns <br />Through which it now cannot walk free. <br /> <br />And a heart like mine that will not sit, <br />But wants to run and play and dance <br />Gets scratched and torn and ripped and worn <br />Whene'e it boldly takes the chance. <br /> <br />We all tend to the meadows <br />In which our own and others hearts play <br />And prune the briars with kind words <br />And clear through a paths way. <br /> <br />All you say and do cuts a swarth <br />In front of where it stands <br />Should it cuts weeds or dancing hearts <br />Depends upon your hands. <br /> <br />Swing your syth, take care <br />And take good aim, <br />Clear a pathway for a dancing heart, <br />Or for its death take the blame!<br /><br />Tomás Ó Cárthaigh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-meadows-through-which-my-dancing-heart/
